


Les Ombres errantes

by KareliaSweet



Series: Couperin Trilogy [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Hannibal, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Harpsichord Porn, Just porn really, M/M, Porn with Murder Nerds and Classical Music, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5288690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/pseuds/KareliaSweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"We are not having sex on the harpsichord."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Hannibal has created a monster.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Harpsichord porn. Exactly what it says on the label.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Ombres errantes

"We are not having sex on the harpsichord."

Hannibal has created a monster.

With the connection between them now fully opened, Will has gone from unsure hesitance to insatiable thirst. The inescapable magnetic pull, now almost violent in its force, has rendered them both to a state of near permanent intoxication. In a scant few months, they have christened nearly every surface in the villa they share together.

It is a large villa.

It's a wonder they find time to kill anyone at all.

Hannibal is pleased with Will's assured self-discovery, of the way he maps Hannibal's body with his hands, devours him with eyes and mouth, allows himself to be consumed so wholly in turn. It is a far cry from their early days of shifting glances, when Hannibal pretended not to notice that Will never turned the television on while he watched Hannibal cook, stalking the lines of his reflection with hungered eyes. It brings him joy to see him ripen to such fruition, to embrace both their uncanny bond and the deep pleasure it has brought them both.

There are days when Will refuses to let him even leave the bed, content to lazily suck his cock with a wanton, sleepy mouth, licking soft lips as he swallows his release down. Hannibal is happy to reciprocate, often with questing fingers, open hot kisses against the tight opening that stretches so pleasantly for him.

Only for him.

He has entered the kitchen on early mornings to see Will already bent and spread, a cocky grin tossed over his shoulder, the matte black jar (of which they now keep several secreted about the house) presented challengingly. Sometimes Will grows impatient and slicks himself, leaving glistening cheeks welcome for Hannibal to slide into with a groan. He likes those mornings the best.

The evenings he likes the best are the quiet ones, splayed in tangles of limbs on the couch and exchanging soft messes of kisses, no further quest for more than the simple contentment of closeness and warmth.

They never tire of each other’s touch, find themselves both with a matching tightness in their chests if gone too long without it. In any incarnation of their lust, there is no satiation for either party.

The harpsichord, however, is where Hannibal draws the line.

It is not the first time Will has asked, often with a teasing moue of a pout, looking up at Hannibal through charmingly arranged curls.

Again, truly, a monster.

"No," Hannibal says, his tone firm even as Will dips to lave his tongue over Hannibal's pulse.

A bold hand slips down his chest, skillfully unbuttoning the linen shirt as it skirts downward, fingers combing through the curled dusting of chest hair that Will finds immeasurably fascinating.

"Please," Will breathes hotly into his ear, sucking at a lobe before releasing it on a graze of teeth.

Hannibal turns from where he is preparing dinner to face his lover, mouth immediately caught in a kiss.

"Will," he says patiently into his mouth, tilting still to allow the slip of a tongue, "I love you beyond measure, beyond reason and time."

He bends to kiss the rise of each cheekbone in turn.

"You are singular and priceless. There is no equal. I would pass through immolation before I would see harm come to you."

He pats Will's bottom then, almost condescendingly, and turns back to the counter.

"The same applies to the Zuckerman."

Will loudly huffs his frustration, and without looking Hannibal can see a puff of curls rise and fall from the forced exhale.

"You will bend, Hannibal," Will tells him, the sweet lace of threat sending electricity along the current between them.

Hannibal says nothing, continues to slice the liver finely, breathing relaxed and even.

"You will," he says again, and moves to pour himself an amply generous glass of wine.

There is an almost imperceptible shake of Hannibal's head, but nothing more. In truth, Will's choice of words unlocks a yearning that has tugged within him since their consummation.

 _You will bend_.

In folding this secret to himself, he keeps the upper hand, though visions of Will taking him in rough thrusts over the delicate harpsichord bolts thick pulses of lust through him. It is a desire that he never thought to have, and now the vision is close to inescapable. Snared between his most prized possessions and being utterly claimed.

He could bring the vision to life in an instant with a word, but this teasing game pleases him. At least for now.

He will satisfy Will's frustration in other ways, yet continue stoking it with his resistance. And what, he thinks, is more beautiful, than a Will Graham on the precipice of ecstasy with his pleasure just so perfectly out of reach.

"Pour me a glass, please," Hannibal says, and hears the pronounced grumble, the swish of liquid against glass, the exaggerated click as it is forcefully set beside him.

Yes, he thinks, this will be a wonderful battle indeed.

-x-

The music is drifting and lush, sweeping in its melancholy, tinged with an unnameable ache.

It is a quiet and calming piece for Will to wake to, but the sound of notes being plucked against the instrument immediately stirs a low frenzy within him.

Hannibal rarely plays so early, and using this method of waking rather than the customary hot mouth on his skin only serves to further cross the wires of his firing synapses. Will awoke hard, as he always does, conditioned now to expect Hannibal's immediate presence to relieve it. Instead, he is playing harpsichord.

The clever bastard.

He rises from their bed, casting aside the sheets in an untidy manner that he knows will greatly displease his insufferably tidy lover. Caring little for propriety in a house so open to carnality, he stumbles nude into the living room, rubs the last of the sleep from his eyes, and watches.

Hannibal fingers fly as nimbly as always over the keys, eyes closed in concentration and head bobbing slow with the still-sleepy rhythm. His feet are bare and he is clad only in his boxers.

It is altogether a tempting display, were it not so carefully crafted. Hannibal is as meticulous in his seduction as he is in all things.

Will palms his cock as the tune drifts to a close and another begins. Padding quietly towards him, he watches Hannibal shift his weight on the piano bench to accommodate another. Smirking, Will moves to straddle the bench and sit close, resting his chin on his shoulder. He slips arms around Hannibal's waist and squeezes, erection pressing stern into his side.

"Mornin'," he mumbles, mouthing a kiss to the skin beneath him.

Hannibal nods a greeting in reply and continues to play. Will slides a hand up his chest, the other stroking up between his shoulder blades and skirting down a in light caress over his arm, careful to not disturb the motion of his playing. He teases another kiss at his nape before slipping his touch lower, to the sprinkling of hair on Hannibal's thighs, muscles shifting as he plays.

He drifts his hand lazily up the ridge of his hipbone, fingers brushing just barely over Hannibal's cock, already stirring to hardness.

He feels Hannibal's smile through his whole body and casts one back in return between slipping kisses over his shoulder. Carefully, he wraps his hand around Hannibal's erection, fingers tightening one by one as he squeezes gently.

"You think you're so damn smart," he murmurs, moving in light strokes that send a delighted shiver coursing down Hannibal's spine.

"Oh?" Hannibal queries, craning his head to kiss at Will's open mouth as he plays. He does not miss a note, even when Will sweeps his tongue hot and wet over his. He feels the wetness of pre-come dripping into his back as Will presses more insistently against him. He is so ready. All Will need do is ask.

He will say no, still, but he aches for this just as keenly.

Will tilts a sweet moan into his mouth and moves his free hand up to caress the line of his jaw.

"Mmm," he purrs, "it's nice to see you play so early."

As swift as a roving shadow, he stands, grace and temptation incarnate, leaving Hannibal with imprints of his heat and nothing more.

"But,” he says, “I'm starving," stretching the word between his teeth as he sets his own body in a similar curve, arms raised high and toned muscle shifting under skin.

"What's for breakfast?" he asks innocently, and walks to the kitchen.

Hannibal stumbles over a note, and the silence that follows is a gulf filled with equal parts triumph and despair.

"I had not-," he begins, and Will waves a charming hand.

"Not to worry," Will says cheerfully, "I can make us something. You keep playing," he adds with a glinting eye, "you seem to be enjoying it so much."

Shocked, for once, at this seemingly impossible defeat, Hannibal stares at his hands, at the instrument before him. In the deafening seconds that follow, he finds he has suddenly forgotten how to play.

A growl snakes free and he stands, baring his teeth in a snarl to Will, who raises his brows in question but does not move from behind the countertop.

"Something the matter?"

Hannibal stalks him as he would any prey, watching as his lover widens his stance, bending himself effortlessly and leaning into the marble.

He catches him about the waist and throws him over his shoulder. Will yelps in genuine surprise as he is carried roughly out to the veranda, tossed none-too-gently into a wide rattan chair.

It is not a punishment when Hannibal stands before him and thrusts his cock into his mouth, not when Will swallows him down so eagerly and greedily. He digs thumbs and fingers sharp into Hannibal's hips as he sucks, moaning around his length and opening his throat to welcome him further.

It takes little time for Hannibal to come forcefully, shoving himself further into the wet heat of Will's mouth and pulling his hair tight to his scalp as he does. Will accepts every drop of him, licking away the stray mess that escapes his lips when Hannibal pulls himself free.

"Good breakfast," he murmurs, sucking the pad of his thumb wetly into his mouth.

He slips his free hand down to his cock, still hard and leaking, and looks up at Hannibal through thick lashes. He says nothing, but the bow of his mouth is invitation enough.

Hannibal is on his knees before he can decide who is the morning's victor, but Will's sweet cry of release that follows minutes later makes him stop caring.

-x-

Will asks again that afternoon when Hannibal returns from the market. He is already standing at the harpsichord, stroking the lid with the tips of his fingers, wearing nothing besides the smirk on his face.

"Welcome back," he says.

Hannibal sets the groceries down and tends to unpacking them, seemingly oblivious to the nude body of his lover.

"Hello, Will."

He doesn't even look up, keeps packing items tidily into the refrigerator, putting aside those that belong in the pantry.

Prepared for the long game, Will reclines lazily against the surface of the Zuckerman, spreading his elbows and leaning so his body shifts in an alluring stretch of lithe muscle. Hannibal's eyes flick up briefly, then back down.

"Careful," he says, "the paint is in need of a new finish."

Erection carefully hidden behind the counter, Hannibal continues to busy himself, resolutely refusing to engage in the charming spread laid before him. He will not break.

Not even when Will turns and balances forward, bowed in a deep bend that presents the curve of his ass, pale and round and perfect.

"I know a couple of other things in need of a new finish," Will says, voice rough with arousal. He can barely believe the words that trickle from his mouth, lust-thick and shameless, but he is in too deep to question himself. Since the morning's playful stalemate, he has desperately wanted Hannibal to fuck him, and his brain is too fogged with need to provide more intelligent discourse.

Hannibal, for his part, stills his movement behind the counter and simply looks. Sees Will, so open and ready, head tossed over his shoulder just so, hooded eyes meeting his.

"What are you asking, Will?" he says calmly.

Will spreads himself further, flexing his toes against the floor.

"I'm asking you to fuck me over the harpsichord," he near-growls.

Hannibal inhales sharply and holds, closing his eyes for a moment to let the images flood his brain. They are not, however, the images he truly craves.

"No," he says quietly on his exhale, and Will curses loudly.

Righting himself immediately, he storms to the bedroom to dress, flushed with embarrassment and unspent arousal.

"Good luck fucking me at all tonight!" he yells, and slams the door.

"I don't need luck," Hannibal murmurs to himself.

Thirty minutes later he proves himself right.

-x-

It is rare for Will to wake before Hannibal, but when he does he generally fixes himself a cup of coffee and watches the sun rise. Some days he walks down to the beach, but today he feels himself pulled by the tug of an easy morning in a warm bed, and he retires with his mug back to plush covers and strong arms.

Whimsy alone causes him to crawl in behind Hannibal instead of in front, where he is normally so cocooned. He dots kisses over Hannibal's spine, spanning his hand around his hip and over his stomach. Stirred as he always is by the nearness of his lover, he presses against him, his hardening cock slipping between Hannibal's thighs.

It's not their usual arrangement, it feels a little strange, and Will moves to withdraw. He stops when he hears a groan. _That_ groan, issued at a pitch he knows by heart. The groan that means 'yes, oh please yes, keep doing that, exactly that, and only that forever'.

' _Oh,'_ Will says in soft wonder as realization washes over him. He makes another little thrust and Hannibal pushes back against him. His cock barely brushes between his cheeks and the sound that issues forth is enough to make Hannibal's unspoken needs abundantly clear.

He could do it now. Coat himself with lube and sleepily fuck him into wakefulness. He would be hot, tight, unyielding. It would be perfect. Will bites a lip to stifle the moan that threatens to spill from his throat. God, he wants this. How has he not known how badly he wants this? He makes a few languid thrusts between Hannibal's thighs, feels the heavy sigh and the lazy press back against him.

He could fuck him right now, slow and deep and utterly welcoming. It would be so good.

But not as good as bending him deep over the harpsichord and fucking him hard.

He withdraws his cock with a muffled curse of his own and tugs at Hannibal's shoulder, pulling him to his back and kissing him to consciousness. He feels Hannibal stir to full stiffness and moves to straddle him, bringing his hand to hold against his cheek and kiss the flesh of his palm.

Hannibal gazes up at him with the sweet fog of the newly woken, mouth curved and wet. Will tightens his thighs around Hannibal's hips and with deft fingers reaches to the jar at the bedside table. He takes Hannibal's hand and dips it so his fingers are shining, then guides his wrist between his legs.

One finger first, gently questing and pressing up, then two _just there_ and Will sighs a heavy pleased groan. He lets Hannibal prepare him slowly, deftly, a third finger stretching him before Will catches his wrist and pulls. Another scoop of lube to his fingers and he slicks Hannibal's cock, raising himself in torturous inches before lowering languorous with a catlike grin.

He fucks himself with a steady insistent rhythm, hands splayed over Hannibal's firm chest. He bends to kiss, reveling in the burning stretch beneath him. Behind his eyes he sees the inverse, sees Hannibal stuffed full with him, wrapped around his cock like a goddamn Christmas present. The vision is breathtaking.

As Hannibal comes inside him, Will’s release catches onto his as he pictures Hannibal spread and coated thick with his seed. He collapses down, mindless of the stickiness between them, kissing sloppily beneath his chin.

"I'm closer to the Zuckerman than you think," he whispers into sweat-sheened skin.

Hannibal glides loving strokes over his back, feeling the last pulse of his cock deep in Will's ass and imagining himself so similarly taken.

"If you only knew," he says, and between their embrace neither see the victorious smile of the other.

-x-

It is over dinner, between steaming bowls of spiced loin and saffron rice, that Will makes his move.

"Darling," he says cheekily, the moniker rarely used in anything but jest, "would you play us something this evening?"

Hannibal arches a brow. Since his last refusal the requests have slowed to a trickle, been half-hearted at best.

"Of course, my beloved," he replies with his own insouciance, "do you have any requests?"

He raises a finger in warning. "Do not say Für Elise or I will garrote you here and now."

The threat does nothing but sent warmth to Will's groin, and he grins broadly with a flash of teeth.

"You'd never dare," he teases, tongue flicking to moisten his already wet lips.

He watches Hannibal's throat constrict as he swallows thickly, eyes narrowing in playful warning.

"Perhaps not," he admits, "but do you wish to test me?"

Will pushes his bowl aside and stands, crossing the table to drop himself into Hannibal's lap.

"Always," he says with a kiss, disregarding etiquette with winsome flagrancy.

Hannibal shakes his head, wrapping one arm around Will's back and spreading a palm between his shoulders.

"Rude," he mutters, "inescapably rude."

Will shrugs carelessly. "Punish me later," he says, "play for me now."

Hannibal gives a little shove and stands, folding his napkin and setting it elegantly to the table.

"And the dishes?"

"Can wait," Will says with a tug on his sleeve, " _Come_."

The tone is unmistakable, and if it weren't his eyes give no room for doubt. They burn bright and scorching, an icy fire eager to consume and be burned in turn.

Hannibal follows with abject obedience, sitting at the bench and flexing his fingers. He looks up at Will with his own hunger to match.

"Your request?" he asks.

"The piece you played the other morning," Will says, "the slow one."

"Another Couperin," Hannibal nods, pleased, "Excellent."

As the music begins, Will straddles the bench, facing Hannibal's profile as he plays.

Slowly, he inches closer, hand seeking up his thigh, mouth working from tricep to the join of Hannibal's shoulder. He bites down softly and Hannibal leans to the touch.

"Are you going to ask again?" Hannibal says as his hands move over the keys.

Another bite, harder, and his hand squeezes dangerously close to Hannibal's rising cock.

"What should I ask?"

Hannibal brows steeple in a small frown. This is not his usual question.

"I believe," he answers, "you are asking me to fuck you on my harpsichord."

Will closes his eyes and noses further against Hannibal's neck, exhaling a satisfied sigh.

"No, love," he says, his words hot with promise.

"I'm asking to fuck _you_ on the harpsichord."

It isn't just a wrong note. It's an entire wrong damn chord, a discordant mess of sound as Hannibal's hands and mind lose their bearings. Will's hand snakes further to skillfully unbutton his trousers and free his erection.

"Have I asked the right question?" he murmurs, lips quirking as Hannibal bucks into his hand. "Will you bend for me?"

Hannibal's head lolls softly back and there is that groan again, full and lush and swallowed by Will's own questing mouth. They kiss feverishly, lips sucking and teasing with eagerness at the prospect of something so deliciously new.

"How did you know?" Hannibal asks as Will begins to unbutton his shirt.

"I could feel it," Will replies, tugging the shirt over his shoulders, "as I feel everything between us."

"Also," he adds casually, "I rubbed my cock against your ass this morning and you were really into it."

Hannibal laughs at the uncouth phrasing, fingers moving to strip his lover in turn.

"It is not something I have desired," he admits, tugging Will's lower lip between his teeth, "Until-"

"You think you need to explain this to _me_?" Will says with a chuckle. "As a reminder, _still not gay_."

Hannibal pulls him into his lap and thrusts up as Will keens and tightens arms around him.

"And still made immeasurably hard by the fact," Hannibal replies with another thrust.

Will looks behind at the harpsichord, back to the man beneath his thighs.

"You're really going to let me-," Will gasps, "you're really going to _let me_..."

Hannibal closes his teeth around Will's earlobe, tugging with a little snarl against him.

"I'm going to let you fuck me," he pants, "over my harpsichord."

Helpless not to, Will makes a satisfied noise of victory. "And you're going to fucking love it."

Hannibal aims a light smack to Will's ass.

"Enough cursing for now, Will," he says, "we aren't even in the bedroom."

Will shifts his weight to stand from Hannibal's lap, pulling him to his feet and divesting him fully of his trousers. Kneeling before him he slowly peels his underwear back and down, watching Hannibal's cock spring free, flushed and hard against his stomach. He places an open-mouthed kiss at the base, before continuing a trail to the tip, sucking it lightly into his mouth and releasing with a little pop.

"This is the fucking bedroom now," he murmurs, and stands to face Hannibal, pulling his hands to his waist and urging his own undressing. Hannibal makes quick work of his pants, almost ripping a button away in his fever, and sinks his palm under the waistband to hold Will's cock, full and heavy in his hand. He kneels with inexorable slowness, peeling away the last of the layers that stand between them, and as Will steps free he wraps tight arms about his waist, pressing a hot cheek to his stomach.

"I love you," he says quietly, and Will strokes a hand through his hair.

They stay there in a brief silence, sharing a contented sigh in the static-charged moment before the welcome summer storm.

Hannibal stands first, crossing to the kitchen where the nearest jar is stored. He hands it to Will with an almost shy smile.

"Try not to get any on the Zuckerman," he says, with little hope that it will come to pass.

"I'll try," Will concedes, and gives Hannibal a small push to turn him facing the harpsichord.

"Now bend for me."

He obeys instinctively, toned thighs pulled taut as he presents himself. He raises to his elbows, careful not to lean too hard into the delicate wood beneath him. He hears Will unscrew the jar and set it beside him, bracing for the touch of cool slick. His breath is knocked out of him, however, when he feels Will part his cheeks and set his hot mouth to the innermost part of him.

"Fuck!" The words explodes from him in a harsh burst and he feels a smack to his thigh in reprimand. Breathing deep, he relaxes as Will paints wet swirls and stripes against him with his tongue.

Will tamps down a smile as he licks hungrily. Hannibal has always done this with such relish, even when the act had seemed so distasteful to him. Now, deep in the musky sweat of his lover, he can think of no place he'd rather be. He curls his mouth and sucks hard over his opening, a volley of several to follow, coating Hannibal with spit and kisses. Ravenous, he pushes deeper, thrusting his tongue against the tight ring of muscle, feeling it open just slightly under him. Hannibal is one long line of tension, desperate the push back into the sensation and desperate to not come apart already.

Pulling back, Will licks wet and broad and reaches up to dip his fingers in the open jar. Stroking the curve of Hannibal's thigh with his free hand, he watches keenly as he breaches him with a slow finger. Hannibal's keening groan pierces the air and Will places a tender kiss to the plush swell of his ass, shifting his finger further inward then drawing back, watching Hannibal's body take him so eagerly already.

"More," Hannibal breathes, and Will dips to slick again, adding a second finger and pushing deeper. Remembering the sweet sensation Hannibal had stirred in him, he bends and seeks, finding the spot that sends him trembling and rubs hard.

Already Will is dismantling him to pieces. Already the threads have been tugged and he is unraveling quickly to the floor under the hands and mouth that know him instinctively, no matter how new the terrain. Hannibal bows his head and digs his nails deep into the wood, feeling the paint split under his fingers.

It needed a new finish anyway, he thinks, and clutches harder, moaning lovely and low as Will adds a third finger. He is both rough and gentle, allowing Hannibal to adjust to each new stretch and pushing harder as he accepts more. He feels Will thrusting, questing fingers rubbing and playing and teasing. Untouched, his cock leaks a drip to the floor, still bobbing hard and firm, begging for contact.

He hopes Will doesn't touch him yet. He will come before the first stroke.

Will continues to watch rapt as Hannibal takes him in, watches his fingers enveloped by the tight muscle, pistoning and stretching. His own cock is so hard it almost hurts, entranced by the notion of being so similarly welcomed by this slick heat. He tugs at it once, feeling clear fluid leaving traces over his free hand, which he feeds to Hannibal, who sucks each finger clean. Pleased, he removes his fingers from Hannibal’s ass, standing to take another generous helping of lube. He strokes his cock shining and red, rubbing the last of it against Hannibal's opening as he lines himself up.

"Are you ready?" he breathes, holding one hip steady.

Hannibal nods mutely and pushes himself back, sighing a deep groan as he feels the tip press against his entrance.

Just the head at first, and that contact alone is enough to spill twin cries from them both. Steadying himself, Will adjusts to the tight heat, letting Hannibal accommodate him. He wants so badly to thrust sharp and hard, but Hannibal had been so tender, so careful, it would be unbearably rude not to extend the courtesy.

No matter how much he wants to split him in two.

Grateful at first for the gentleness, Hannibal feels his blood stir faster, a tempest roiling within him. He wants, needs, to be taken hard and fast. He knows Will is holding back, can feel the tension rippling through him. He smiles dark and wide and reaches back, grabbing Will's ass and tugging hard so he is sheathed completely.

Overloaded with sudden sensation, Will falls forward onto Hannibal's back, holding himself deep inside and panting heavily.

"Christ," he chokes out, holding on for dear life, "Christ, Hannibal."

He allows himself a long moment to adjust, to feel himself so buried and held. He traces kisses between Hannibal's shoulder blades, pushing himself up with a heavy shove as the harpsichord skitters an inch under their combined weight.

Now righted, Will pulls himself back, inch by careful inch, before thrusting in again, hard.

The harpsichord shifts another inch.

"Careful," says a voice, but neither are sure which of them it belongs to.

Clutching hard at Hannibal's hips, Will begins a steady rocking rhythm, none too gentle, but not so hard as to completely send them off their balance. Each stroke pulls a sweet sound from the man beneath him, and Will finds himself swell with love and fierce possessiveness. Only he can draw these notes, only he can sketch the beginnings of such a symphony. The thought drives him harder, deeper, and cries of his own escape him at the tight heat that envelops him so securely.

Never has he wanted to fuck a man. Never will he again. But the joining of their bodies, in this way, it is a loop of such ecstasy that he cannot imagine a greater pleasure. No one and nothing could ever satisfy him so fully, saturating each nerve and limb with untamable fire that only Hannibal can control.

He reaches low to take Hannibal's cock in hand, to feel the weight of him pulsing hard and wanting, but Hannibal bats him away.

"No," he pants, "if you touch me I will surely come."

Will bows low to rub his cheek at Hannibal's nape, working his hips a little faster, catching at the spot within him that he can feel untethers Hannibal the most.

"I'm about to come myself," he says, reaching again, "you feel so..." he gasps as Hannibal clenches around him.

"You fucking undo me," Will moans, "Hannibal..."

Unable to stave the wave cresting steep and harsh, Will bites into Hannibal's shoulder and groans.

"Come with me," he begs, and with a snap of his hips, Will buries himself deep and spills hot and hard inside him. The sensation of Will coating him, claiming him, sends Hannibal over the edge. He comes in thick pulses to the floor, entirely untouched, mouth open in a soundless cry.

Will collapses his weight upon Hannibal’s and the harpsichord shifts again with a slight creak.

Groaning, Will pulls himself free and draws Hannibal to sit nestled between his legs on the piano bench. He breathes in the comfort of his nearness, his sweat, the knowledge that he has been irreversibly branded. They rest in tandem, Hannibal’s head rolled back to nuzzle the curve of Will’s neck, Will’s chin hooked over his shoulder as they exchange a clumsily aimed kiss.

Tucking arms around Hannibal’s middle, Will finds a hand and locks their fingers together, softly stroking his thumb over the thin skin and fine bone beneath. A myriad of loving words go unspoken between them, conveyed instead with a kiss, then another, lingering, before Hannibal turns his gaze to the Zuckerman. He makes a small pained sound and turns his head back to bury into Will’s neck, eyes closed.

There are thick gouges in the delicate paint from where Hannibal had dug his nails in, multiple lines scoring his rapture. Below, a spatter of cum graces one of the tapered legs, whereas another tilts dangerously, knocked loose from the many scrapes and shoves it endured against the tile.

Will surveys the damage with an odd mix of guilt and pride. The damage could be a lot worse, but it is, he notes with satisfaction, entirely his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he says, nudging his cheek to Hannibal’s in a little plea for forgiveness that has already been earned.

“All can be fixed,” Hannibal sighs, squeezing Will’s fingers between his, “dare I say the damage was worth the experience.”

“Damn right it was,” Will proclaims with another brush of lips, light and sweet.

Hannibal stretches in a sated arch against his lover, curving an arm behind to slide fingers into his hair and tug fondly.

“I do have one humble request, Will.”

“Mm,” he responds, preening into the touch.

Hannibal pauses, tugs again sharply, and smiles.

“Stay the hell away from my theremin.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Couperin - Les Ombres Errantes](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H0xLHdb9MWE)  
>  (I'm sorry, I could not find a good harpsichord reference from youtube, but trust me it's lovely)
> 
> I'm not sure if I've ever crammed this much smut into a single story but guess what I'm not even sorry. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
> 
>  **UPDATE 3/13/2016** : [Stay the hell away from my theremin, you say?](http://lovecrimevariations.tumblr.com/post/140770808605/a-prompt-for-the-day-if-you-have-time-of-course)


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